


Time Waits for No Man

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing he remembers saying, as they wheel him on a gurney straight into an operating room, is "But I don't <i>get</i> sick."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Waits for No Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt "secrets revealed"
> 
> * * *

Matt hears all the jokes – that he's a shut-in, a recluse, he never sees the sun, he's going to get Vitamin D deficiency or overdose on energy drinks. But the truth is, Matt doesn't get sick. Oh sure, he's got the asthma, but that's a _condition_. It's not the same thing. Generally speaking, he scoffs at your garden variety cough and cold. Laughs in the face of the flu. He still has his Perfect Attendance grade-school certificate. Or he would, if his apartment hadn't exploded into a giant fireball. 

So when his stomach starts feeling sore, he initially passes it off as a pulled muscle. Then a spasm. Then he limps to the store and downs a bottle of prune juice in case the works just need a little… motivation.

Which is why he ends up being rushed to the hospital in an ambulance with an appendix that's about ready to burst out of his abdominal cavity. 

The last thing he remembers saying, as they wheel him on a gurney straight into an operating room, is "But I don't _get_ sick."

The last sight he remembers is John's worried eyes as the automatic doors ease shut.

* * *

For a moment, when Matt opens his eyes to see John staring down at him, he thinks he's still on the gurney. That maybe he actually managed to fall asleep for a moment, despite the pain in his gut. But in a blink he realizes that the walls aren't zooming past, that John is sitting and not running along beside him. He blinks again, wets his dry lips. "I guess I didn't die."

"Jesus, Matt," John huffs out. "No, kid, you didn't die."

"Good to know. I'd hate to die before I finish BioShock," Matt says. He looks past John to the sickly yellow-green walls, the generic artwork that blends into the paint colour. "Okay, this might sound weird but… what happened?"

John leans back, swipes a hand over his chin. "I came home to find you passed out on the kitchen floor, glass everywhere. You don't remember?"

Matt vaguely remembers forcing the disgusting prune juice down his throat. When his stomach lurched in response he thought it was just the result of drinking what tasted like watered down battery acid, but apparently he was wrong. "Kinda?" he says.

"I found you lying there, pasty white, covered in sweat. Called an ambulance and got you here. They said five more minutes and your appendix might have…" John shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Got ya here on time. How you feeling?"

Matt looks down at the blanket, pauses to take stock. His head hurts a little and his throat is raw, but the stabbing, ripping, wolverine-tearing-at-his-insides pain has dulled to a dimmer, more manageable ache. "I'm okay," he says. He looks up at McClane hopefully. "Did they give me morphine?"

"Demerol," John says.

Matt sighs. "Damnit."

"I'd say 'better luck next time', but there sure as hell better not be a next time. You got that?"

Matt nods, because John seems to expect a nod, even though he's not really even sure what John just said. Because now he's waking up. Really waking up, as opposed to the sludgy, muddled state he's felt for the past few minutes. And he's suddenly aware of something more important than his burst appendix or the lack of the morphine elixir in his life. He licks his lips again, nods down at the sheet. "Are you… holding my hand?"

John glances down at their joined fingers. "Yup."

"That's…" Matt flails for a moment, blames the drugs for his brain failing to provide him immediately with the proper word. "Unexpected", he finally settles on. 

"Really, kid?"

Matt's heart races, and his mouth suddenly feels dry from a lot more than the damn Demerol. 

"You scared the shit outta me, Matt." John sits up straighter, takes a deep breath and leans in toward the bed. "Walking in this afternoon, seeing you lying there like that, it made me realize that we don't have a lot of time in this world. I fucked up a lot in my life. Messed up my marriage, my relationship with my kids. Would've jettisoned my own career down the toilet if Cobb hadn't been so damn patient. Keep acting like I got all the time in the world to do better – to make amends, find Zeus and apologize for that damn spaghetti thing, spend time with the people I care about – and I don't. There's only so much time, and my clock's tickin'. I don't know why getting shot didn't open my fucking eyes to that. Maybe somehow I thought it was okay if I bought it—"

"That's not okay," Matt says quickly. "The world needs men like you, McClane."

John strokes a calloused thumb along his finger, and Matt swears he feels it down to his toes. 

"I've been pussyfooting around the way I feel for you for months," John says. He looks away toward the bland artwork and Matt watches, almost in awe, as he swallows nervously before turning back. "I care about you, Matthew. Think I'm falling in love with you, kid. And I'm hoping you feel the same, though I'm still not sure why you would. But if you're willing to take a chance on an old broken-down cop with a bad shoulder—"

Matt holds up the hand that isn't clenched in John's grasp. "Okay, so you know when I said the world needs men like you? What I meant was _I_ need a man like you." Matt shakes his head when John's eyes narrow, when John looks down at the flimsy blanket. He wants to be clear, _has_ to be clear. "No, not _like_ you. I need _you_ , John."

John squeezes his hand and doesn't speak, and after a moment Matt realizes that maybe John can't speak. Maybe everything that he's feeling – anticipation and relief and a tiny bit of fear and mostly hope, shining and exciting – is filling John up, too. His brain is telling him to bury the silence in words, but he presses down on John's hand instead.

Then an orderly bustles in with his dinner, and the moment is broken. John releases him, leans back against the stiff-backed chair. Matt reaches over to the buttons on his bed, raises himself into a sitting position and swings the table over in front of him. 

He lifts the lid on the plastic tray, stares distastefully at the greyish pseudo-meat and cold scoop of potatoes. Then Matt smiles, meets John's eyes. "Hey, you wanna share?" he asks. "I hate to eat alone."


End file.
